


Driving Slowly in the Middle Lane

by Lumberjackk



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Internal Conflict, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22261720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumberjackk/pseuds/Lumberjackk
Summary: Nothing means anything, let's party.
Kudos: 3





	1. Trying to Find a Reason to Live and Failing (Also Known as the Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> I just started this gem. What do you think? Honestly, it's mostly to help me cope with mental illness. Woop woop.

Every day I want to jump off a building just a little bit more. I’m not suicidal, I’m just tired of my own mind; ya know? Lately, I have been internally screaming so loud my ears start ringing, and then my head hurts because my brain is constantly attacking itself. The voices in my head hate each other and I am nothing but a bystander waiting to see who will win. It is like watching the presidential debates but everyday and excruciatingly depressing.

_ And for today’s debate to see who will be the next president of the mental states of Brain, please welcome Amanda, the cheery pinterest mom, and Annarack, the soul-crushing monster who wants to see everyone suffer a slow and painful demise. Now, let’s see your questions! _

**What should I eat for breakfast?**

AMANDA: Something healthy! Maybe oatmeal with fruit, a bagel, some eggs. Anything that will fuel a good day!

ANNARACK: Starve you fat bitch

_ Looks like the voters are indecisive! We are going to compromise and eat something, but feel guilty about it all day. Next! _

**I just tripped! How do I recover?**

AMANDA: It’s okay! Laugh it off, it happens. Life is too short to worry! 

ANNARACK: You clumsy whore, no one will ever love you. Your mom wishes she had swallowed you. Now everyone in a thirty mile radius thinks you’re stupid. Your hair looks ugly by the way. 

**My friend just used a different tone of voice than usual, is she mad at me?**

AMANDA: Nope! She probably didn’t even notice. She might have had a bad day! You’re fine! 

ANNARACK: Shut the fuck up Amanda you goat-fucking slut. Your “friend” hates you. Probably is talking shit about you for tripping. Nobody likes you anyways.

_ Looks like Amanda has dropped out! Any last thoughts Annarack? _

ANNARACK: Kill yourself

It’s fucking exhausting. My head hurts. I want to go to sleep but like forever. I want to die but be able to come back to life when I’m done not living. I want to go into an Ikea and never come out. I just want to be free from the prison of my own mind. That’s all. I want the knowledge and clout I have now with the mental state I had in sixth grade. I want to have that fake-ass depression and anxiety bundle that comes with a free purchase of one (1) Billie Eilish song. I would sell a kidney to give a girl who unironically says she’s quirky an actual mental illness. Then maybe someone would write ukulele songs that don’t make me wanna chop my ears off. 

This is all just one hell-of-a-mess prologue to explain how bad I want a Xanax right now. I wanna take one and go to bed and if by chance I don’t wake up it will be a pleasant surprise. Honestly, it could be seasonal. I haven’t seen the sun in a while. I wake up, I go to class, I practice, and I write. That is it. 

Ok no that’s not it. I also stay up till three am every night daydreaming and pacing in my room to music until I pass out. Is it bad? Yes. Has it consumed my life? Absolutely. Do I wish I was doing that right now? You bet. Am I going to stop? No fuck you.

THIS IS A CRY FOR HELP

No it’s not. I want to blow my brains out every day but don’t we all? Over the years I have had five psychologists and still my mental health is worse than ever. It’s probably my own fault, but I feel so damn trapped and holy shit if another person talks to me about another first-world problem I’m going to strangle them. I’m not saying mine aren’t first world. I don’t even know what world they’re in, but if you think I want to listen to you talk about your crush, you are very wrong. Australia is on fire and everyone has a gun, so shut up. 

Anyways, here’s the book I guess. It’s either going to be the worst, most confusing thing you have ever laid your eyes on or it will be incredible. Who knows. Fuck it, enjoy!


	2. The Eerie Orange Glow of the Cosmos Telling You to Shut the Fuck Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You finally get a character! Don't bother trying to make sense of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wtf even is this

I’m in the middle of a narrow sidewalk, it’s dark out, and I don’t know how I got here. All that I can remember is right now and everything that happened three years ago. Mostly a lot of trips to the zoo. There’s a four-lane road on my left and train tracks to my right; as if the universe is trying to tell me to pick a goddamn side for once. I feel the Earth beneath my feet but it doesn’t feel  _ right _ . The horizon of city lights and a very dark blue sky (that would make people who enjoy wasting their time discuss whether it is navy or black) are almost blurry; as if they are nothing but a mirage. 

Sometimes, the weirdly-orange light that street lamps give off when it has become the next morning makes me wonder if I’m in the right universe. I start to walk forward, because that’s the only illusion I demand to cling on to. I say that because I don’t have enough cosmic power to teleport yet, so my only option is to walk while I am still in the solar system that allows me to do so. One day, I will die and no longer walk forward. I don’t honestly know what I will do. Maybe i’ll come back to life, or be suspended in space-time with no boundaries; drifting like I’m in spectator mode on a video game. Maybe, I’ll go to hell like so many people have told me to do. Or, maybe it’s lights out. Game over: nothingness. What if I’m the only person that actually exists. If I knew that for a fact, I would not be walking forward on this sidewalk. I would run right into the road, strip, and sing Wonderwall until I collapse. 

But for now, I walk in a direction resembling what I think I know is forward, and I try to forget about the possibility that none of this is real. I’m in a trance. Where I might be going is up to where my feet take me. They’ve got a little more common sense when it comes to making decisions. My vision is a dazed blur and I can’t  _ really  _ tell where I’m going. I know that I’m on sidewalk dividing a street and some train tracks, but I don’t know where that would be. I have no clue how I got here or why I’m wearing a pair of black cargo pants, but alas those things matter less. The only thing that holds real significance in the world I’m doomed to live in is money, and I have none on me. All these pockets and not a single stray cent in any. What I do find is a ziplock bag full of glitter, a single blunt, a business card for a pogo stick business, and a ziplock bag full of something else. So that’s where my money went. 

At this point, all I can do is keep walking, so I do. I feel like I’ve been walking forever. When did walking get so complicated? My legs hurt, my vision is blurry, and I think I can taste blood. Maybe I should hitchhike? No, that’s not something people actually do. Or is it? I have never actually seen a single hitchhiker. Or quicksand. I also have never had an old man tell me about a prophecy. I thought these would be prominent issues in my life, but they absolutely aren’t. A car emerges from my peripheral vision. I stick my thumb out. To my surprise, it stops. It’s a minivan with an ugly gold-ish color that screams to be vandalized. The window rolls down and the fat equivalent of a soccer mom appears. “You should not be out this late young man, where are your parents?” she asks in the most annoying voice I have ever heard. Good to know I’m still a guy, though. I want to respond with something snarky but I don’t remember how old I am, so I reply “dead.” She immediately apologizes and lets me in. Actually, I don’t entirely know if they are or not. It’s like that thing with the cat in the box, except it’s my parents and the box is that I can’t remember anything before I was twelve and after I was seventeen. Until now, I remember now.

She motions for me to hop in so, as anyone with any knowledge of implications would do, I get in. I ask her what she thinks the meaning of life is. She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind, which I probably have. I like asking people what they think the meaning of life is. There really is very little meaning to the lives of the human race, but it’s more of a question of what drives people. What means the most to people shows when asked about why we live as a species. I mostly get answers like happiness, helping others, or forty-two. The day I get an interesting answer will be the day I stop asking.

Until then, I will let them be boring fucks and say some average garbage in response to the biggest question in all of the human race: why are we here? The answer is that there is no reason. The correct molecules combine and boom! You’ve got yourself a species. There’s this “chosen one” epidemic that follows Earth; as if we are all going to save the universe. The thing we don’t realize is that we are the only ones we are capable of saving. Humans are so set on figuring everything out, that somehow we have done the opposite. Scientists neglect their friends and families in pursuit of knowledge and forget that the wisdom that comes with caring for people is something you won’t find under a microscope. 

The possibility of the middle aged lady driving this car being a cosmic deity is lower than your grandma’s tits, but never zero, so I have a chat with her. She has two kids, is a stay-at-home mother with a busy schedule, and her husband owns a pool company. I ask her if she could’ve restarted, would she do it all again. With a deep, mournful sigh; she says no. She wanted to become a pilot. I ask her what’s stopping her, and she says her familial responsibilities. I wonder if many housewives feel this way; if they want to go out into the world but feel too trapped to do so. “Well,” I reply, “what if you left it all? You could take this car and never return. You could leave your fat, balding husband and your kids that you’re only kinda proud of and become a pilot. Hell, you could become a stripper or a hitman or a motorcycle bar owner. The world is up to you when you don’t let it decide  _ your  _ fate. I mean, for fuck’s sake, you’re driving around town in the middle of the night just to be away from your life. You have many years ahead of you, don’t let them be the same, boring, miserable years you’ve lived so far. I can look at you and tell you want to be somewhere else, even someone else. Trade that brown cloak of a shirt for a pink corset and live the life you’ve always dreamed of! Listen, I know it seems weird and crazy to take drastic life advice from a stranger you just picked up from who knows where, but don’t you wish you were in my shoes? Living life with nothing holding you back; taking fate by the throat and demanding it listen to you? I might not know where I am or how I got here, but I know by the amount of cocaine in my pocket that I had a good time that lead to arriving here.” The car goes silent for a little while, and then she steps on the gas. 

We fly at probably eighty miles per hour down the road and Mrs. Soccer Mom rolls down all the windows, including the one on the roof. “Grab the steering wheel and don’t slow down!” she yells. I comply, and she stands up through the sunroof; taking off her hideous top and letting her hair be carried by the winds of freedom. We speed along this never-ending road with not a care in the world; propelled by the ever-growing concern of getting a ticket. 

Then I opened the door and jumped out of the car. This is where you might be confused as fuck. You were finally starting to understand what the hell was going on and boom! All gone. Think of it as a lesson. Real life is made up of plot twists. It’s not the stars, it definitely isn’t some otherworldly being, and it is never fate. It’s just unfortunate coincidence. Life fucking sucks sometimes and trying to make sense of it is like trying to pick up cereal with a dry paper towel; doable, but hard and a complete waste of time. There are very few things in our world that are actually true (most of them having to do with baby spinach) but one of them is that nothing is true. That statement might not even be true. Everything you know you can’t  _ really  _ be proven. For example: atoms. Have you ever seen one? No. In fact, as one of the most widely accepted “facts” of life, it is also fucking ridiculous. I mean, seriously, little floating orbs of what? Other little orbs? And you’re telling me that a bunch of those condensed orbs at different speeds and amount make up  _ everything _ . That seems absurd. Really, it’s weirder than the flat Earth theory. 

That’s probably the reason why humans have yet to find substantial alien life. We assume we know things and that the universe revolves around the way we think things work. For example, scientists (human ones) have concluded that a planet like Saturn could not sustain life when really, it just couldn’t sustain  _ human _ life. Everything that we know is just what we think we know and assume applies to the universe when really it only applies to the fishtank pebble of the cosmos that we live on called Earth. What if the living organisms on Saturn breathe hydrogen and have the properties of a charged, free-moving gas that enables them to maneuver around the gas giant. You know who can’t disprove that? You. Or anyone. If you haven’t been to Saturn you really  _ don’t  _ know. So shut up. You probably only like the top part of the muffin. Disgusting.

Anyways, I jump out of the car and my shoulder gets torn up by the edge of the asphalt before I roll into a grassy field. The world is in a sort of slow motion when you almost die. I see the soccer mom, eyes still closed, get driven by the will of the stars into an overpass and explode into many pieces which scatter like shards of glass in the hands of an alcoholic. Then I see the stars themselves; sneering with cruel accomplishment. Then I see the grass, almost as wet as your mother when I come over, and then I see: nothing. My last thought as I pass the fuck out is:  _ why the fuck does everyone hate that song about being happy from like 2014 so much.  _


End file.
